


Caught Between

by Gia279



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, Missing, Worry, ghost - Freeform, ghost au, some gore, suspected dead character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's dishwasher is haunted, or at least he thinks so, since he was definitely not the one who put his dishes away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mark Major Character Death, because things, but if that's something that will bother you, skip to the end notes? C: My friend rebekahdarian helped me go over this, and talked me out of making it longer. (I did try to make it longer, and it was difficult to the point that I realized it just wasn't meant to be longer.) Anyway, hope you enjoy the cute.

**August**

 

It started with the dishes.

 

Derek had lived in the apartment for months and had a habit of letting the dishes pile morbidly high in the sink before stuffing them all in the dishwasher. When he remembered to run it, he’d leave the dishes in there, only taking out what he needed to use, until all of the dishes were back in the sink.

 

If he were being honest with himself, he’d admit that he mostly just let things stay where they fell, that he was basically letting himself live in a mess because he was sad. On the days when he could be embarrassed about that, he loaded the dishwasher and put his clothes in the washer.

 

He never remembered to put them in the dryer until after they stank of mildew. Since he rarely left his apartment anyway, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

He’d been reaching to dig a bowl out of the dishwasher in early August when he realized that there wasn’t anything _in_ the damn thing.

 

He stared at the rack blankly, a moment of breathless panic making him jump back like it might be radioactive. He wasn’t sure if werewolves could be affected by radiation, but just in case, he was keeping away from the dishwasher. He nudged the door closed with the toe of his shoe and looked around the kitchen wildly. The sink was empty, too.

 

With a clammy hand, he flicked open the cabinet above the dishwasher. There were cups there, in neat rows, on top of a clean white towel that he knew for _sure_ he’d never put there. His mother used to do that, though. Put a towel down for the clean dishes. 

 

He slammed the cabinet shut and stalked out of the apartment.

 

 

When he came back, the cups were still in the cabinet, and, worse, the plates and bowls were stacked neatly in the other cabinet, the one beside the sink and above what little counter space he had.

 

It was, at this point in time, entirely possible that he had done this and forgotten about it. His body or brain’s way of begging for him to clean his surroundings, to give some sort of _effort_ into living like a person. He decided that the dishes were probably radioactive and ate a handful of dry cereal, took a swing of milk that he immediately spat back out.

 

He’d gone out for groceries and had come back with salt.

 

Nauseated—and surprised, how had he missed the sour odor of the milk through the fridge?—he poured the milk down the drain and left the jug in the sink. More than a little disgusted by the fuzzy, coated feeling the milk had left on his tongue, he took a 7-Up out of the fridge and guzzled it down, letting out a satisfied belch when he finished. The empty can slid from his fingers when he heard a masculine chuckle from behind him, boyish in its joy and appreciation.

 

He swung around and inhaled, searching for the intruder. His whole body shook when he scented no one but himself and his mess in the apartment. His sluggish brain took a detour to wonder when the last time he’d even seen another person up close was before finally winding back around to decide that he had imagined the laugh and had forgotten that he’d put the dishes away, autopilot after a hard day of remembering how much his mother _hated_ smelly dishes in the sink. He’d even mimicked her way of putting them away. It was probably normal.

 

He searched his kitchen until he found a wrinkled sheet of paper and a sad looking pen, jotting down what he might need from the store—frozen dinners, milk, more Fruit Loops, maybe some toothpaste, he couldn’t remember if he needed toothpaste. He’d buy some anyway.

 

 

By the time he got back to the apartment, exhausted and slightly dizzy after making a point of _not_ going to the self-checkout, he was furious at himself. All of this because he decided to get dramatic about not seeing any other people for possibly three months.

 

His head hurt from the assault of perfumes, colognes, scented lotions, scented deodorants, laundry detergent, and various other things that humans coated themselves in to disguise their natural scents. He put the milk in the fridge, the dinners in the freezer, and left everything else on the counter, flopping face-first down into his couch to take a nap. He didn’t even mind the sweat-sad-lonely scent that had permeated into the fabric from his time spent there. 

 

**September**

Derek lived with the dishes magically putting themselves away for a month. He even found himself putting things back where he’d gotten them from, a glass used for water back in its home above the microwave, an unused plate back with its brethren. It took another week for him to realize, as he was unloading the dishwasher, that he’d been _trained_. Whoever had been putting the dishes away had _trained_ him.

 

Irritated, he left the dishwasher open and tried to stalk out of the kitchen, except the cabinet next to the stove flew open a second before he passed it. It smashed into his face and broke his nose, splintering off the hinges. Blood spurted from his nose and forehead, smearing his face before he healed. He stared at the splintered remains of the cabinet door.

 

“Was there a _purpose_ to that?” he demanded, licking blood off his lips and grimacing at the taste.

 

He shuddered when he felt it, phantom fingers brushing his forearm so gently and deliberately that it could only be an apology.

 

Dr. A. Deaton was not impressed with Derek, in general or at the moment. “You have a ghost, Mr. Hale. A benign one, at that. Possibly a parent that died before their children were grown. They’re trying to take care of you. Have you noticed anything besides the dishes?”

 

Derek shook his head. “She—he—they tried to stop me from leaving the kitchen before I finished putting the dishes away. By slamming a cabinet door in my face.”

 

“You said the ghost hadn’t been violent,” Deaton pointed out blandly.

 

“Well, they hadn’t. I think the cabinet was mostly meant to get in my way,” Derek admitted. He swallowed. “Do you think the ghost could be-?”

 

“Ghosts tend to be people who had very powerful, psychic energy in life,” Deaton said in a blank voice. “Talia was powerful in many ways, but her energy was all physical.”

 

“So it’s a witch,” Derek said, trying not to think about his mother.

 

“Not necessarily. I will look into it. You might try _thanking_ them, though.”

 

 

Derek walked into his apartment and stared around. The cabinet splinters were cleaned up and in the trash. The dishes he’d left were put away.

 

“I, uh, wanted to say thank you? For helping me.” He felt a scowl slip over his face. “And thanks a fucking lot for the busted nose.”

 

He jumped when he felt a finger trail down the very unbroken line of his nose.

 

“I realize it healed, but it still _hurt_.” He was talking to the ghost haunting his dishwasher. “I think I’m going to go to sleep now.” He shuffled to the couch and fell asleep.

 

After he started doing the dishes by himself, the ghost stopped doing them at all. Next it was the laundry. The laundry started in late October when he tossed the pile of _stuff_ into the washer and forgot about it. When he finally did remember, it was because he heard the dryer and went to investigate. The towels were stacked, damp, on the edge of the washer, and the dryer was running with just his clothes. He couldn’t fathom why.

 

Until he took his dried clothes out and found the bits of towel fuzz stuck all over the insides of his shirts. He dropped his stuff on the couch and went to microwave one of the frozen dinners he’d bought, then went back to the living room to watch TV or something.

 

His clothes were folded neatly and separated into piles. Shirts, jeans, boxers and socks. He swallowed.

 

“Look, when I fold things, they don’t look even close to that, so there’s no point in me folding them, anyway.” He was glad that Deaton had confirmed there was a ghost; otherwise, he’d have worried that he was doing all this himself and forgetting it. Talking out loud to the ghost was weird enough, but he was also starting to feel rude if he didn’t. “But, um, thanks. I guess.” He started to sit down beside the piles and cursed when a pair of socks bounced off the side of his head. “Oh. Right.” Huffing only a little, he picked the piles up and took them to his room and carefully put everything in their designated drawers. He was a little surprised to find that his drawers had been empty. When had that happened?

 

The admittedly embarrassing pile of clothes next to his door was probably the answer.

 

He felt drained just looking at it, so he went to get his macaroni meal thing out of the microwave before his uninvited guest could decide those weren’t good enough for him, either.

 

As the weeks went on, he was putting more and more of his clothes away. He even started hanging things after his ghost flung a hanger at him when he flatly said he wasn’t hanging _shit_. It wasn’t long before he started remembering to put all his dirty clothes in the laundry room, in the correct piles (that he hadn’t started himself). He was moving around more than he had since he moved into the damn place.

 

He began doing his own laundry by the fifth of December.

 

It was mid-December when he saw the ghost for the first time.

 

“You know,” he said as he stuffed his darks in the dryer, “I’m sure you’re aware that I’m a werewolf. Also, you’ve been doing my chores for months. I don’t think you have to hide from me. And don’t think I don’t know that you’re strong enough to show yourself. You’ve thrown things at me, you picked up dishes and changed the laundry. I looked into it when Deaton said you should be able to show yourself, and I’ve met ghosts before.” He hesitated, flipping the dial to an hour. “I just…it would…I’m starting to wonder if I’m going crazy here. Because you got me doing the laundry and the dishes and now you’re not doing much anymore.”

 

The laundry room door slammed shut and swung open again, like he’d irritated them.

 

“I meant that I can’t tell if you’re really here or if I’m imagining all of this!” he snapped, throwing his hands up. He stalked to the kitchen and ripped open a frozen dinner, throwing it into the microwave a little hard. He jabbed buttons with less care than he normally would have, but he could replace the damn thing if he broke it.

 

“I just want to know who I’m talking to,” he muttered, scowling around the room.

 

The microwave stopped cooking his meal. Annoyed, he jabbed at the start button, and was instantly gratified when it started cooking again. Until it stopped once more.

 

“Is that _you_? I’m hungry, stop that.” He started it again and pressed his hand over the stop button. He felt those phantom fingers tap the back of his hand, startling him, before the plug was yanked unceremoniously from the wall. “What do you have against me eating?” he demanded, crossing his arms defensively.

 

He heard that boyish laugh again, a finger jabbing into his chest, then his stomach.

 

He didn’t understand.

 

Until he did.

 

“Are you _kidding_? Trust me, my stomach can handle all the processed crap in the world.” He plugged the microwave back in.

 

The huff of air he felt against his ear startled him so badly that he jumped and banged into the counter. When he turned around, he was so surprised that his fangs dropped immediately, claws popping out and eyes flashing.

 

“What the fuck.”

 

The boy bit his lip and flickered out of sight.

 

“No, that’s not what I meant—wait.” Derek lifted his hands palm out, bracing for anything to be thrown at him. “You’re just, uh, younger than I thought.”

 

The ghost flicked back into sight, scowling. “I’m twenty, you asshole,” he said in a voice that Derek could definitely match to those laughs he’d hear sometimes. His eyelids flickered like he was looking down. “I _was_ twenty.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t know if I still am or what.”

 

Everything about the boy—the man—the ghost was faded; Derek couldn’t quite tell what color his eyes were, couldn’t get a good look at even the whites of them. It wasn’t unnerving so much as annoying; it was as if his face was turned away from the sun and the shadows were blocking out his finer features.

 

He was pale, but Derek wasn’t sure if that was a ghost thing, or his ghost’s real skin tone. He was also skinny and tall, wearing a graphic t-shirt and jeans, sneakers battered and the laces loose.

 

“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning his hip up against the counter. He wasn’t as shocked anymore. He’d lived with the ghost since August, and this boy wasn’t the first ghost he’d spoken to. It was actually less weird now that he could see him.

 

“I—” his face twisted. “Hold on, gimme a sec. It takes a few to get it back. Things are kind of in and out these days, you know?” He waggled his hand back and forth. “Stiles! I used to go by Stiles. I don’t remember what my real first name was.” He looked down. “It’s all kind of fading.”

 

“Did you live here?” Derek asked, running his fingers across the counter beside him.

 

Stiles looked around, nose wrinkling. “Uh, no. I lived in a house with my…with probably my parents?” He looked scared, his eyes turning to hollows suddenly, bottomless black pits in his pale, thin face. “I can’t really remember that part. I can sort of remember things about myself, but anything else is already gone.”

 

Derek tried not to let his frown show. The ghosts he’d met, the reading he’d done, none of it pointed to a reason why Stiles would be forgetting things about his life. He should remember his life, details about himself. Something weird was going on.

 

“Has it been like that since you started…helping…me?”

 

“What, me not remembering? Yeah, kind of. I mean, I rarely thought about it. What I was thinking about was the pigsty that you live in.” He looked around with a sniff. “You gotta take better care of yourself, man, werewolf or not.”

 

“Is that what this is? You, what, saw me and decided I was the person to bo-” he stopped himself from saying “bother”. Stiles hadn’t actually been a bother, and if he remembered, ghosts were temperamental, easily insulted. He didn’t want to piss him off in case that set off a string of electronic shortages. “You decided I needed your help?”

 

Stiles made some sort of motion, one that was entirely ghost-like and not human, because it was fluid and smooth and he was sitting on the counter. “Well, yeah. I guess. I don’t know. I was wandering around and I guess I realized you weren’t human either, so I went to you. And you seemed kind of sad, and you were letting things fall apart…so I decided to help you.” He swung his legs.

 

On the downswings, they were blurred and hard to see.

 

“I wasn’t letting things _fall apart_ ,” Derek muttered, looking back toward his face.

 

His eyes were back to the slightly shadowed, indistinct look they had started out with. “Okay, then you were letting _yourself_ fall apart. Your place was a complete mess!” He gestured widely and made some sort of motion with his hands that Derek assumed was meant to encompass the apartment as a whole. “Look at it now! It looks like an actual, real person lives here.”

 

Derek’s brows furrowed and his mouth tightened against the urge to smile. “An actual, real person _does_ live here,” he pointed out.

 

“And now it looks like you could survive in here, too,” Stiles laughed, a bright, infectious sound.

 

Derek didn’t want to think about the fact that this twenty-year-old with the bright laugh and the swinging legs was dead.

 

“Do you know why you’re still here?” he asked, and watched hurt flash across Stiles’s face before he realized what that sounded like. “Wait, that’s not what I meant-”

 

It was too late; Stiles had already flickered out of sight, and, across the apartment, a door slammed.

 

 _Ghosts are so_ sensitive, he thought, exasperated.

 

Curious, Derek went to see which door it was. It wasn’t the laundry room, bathroom, or his bedroom. It wasn’t that second bedroom that he had filled with junk. …

 

He pulled open the closet where Stiles had started putting the towels.

 

Stiles was curled up in a tight ball beneath the lowest shelf, shadowed eyes turned up toward him and unnerving in their hollowness.

 

“Okay, that’s kind of dramatic.” Derek’s mother had gotten rid of a poltergeist once before, and he’d had to help. This was not anywhere near that bad.

 

“Says the guy whose eyes turned _blue_ when he saw me. Did you know you don’t have eyebrows when you do that?” Stiles asked, and it was weird, but his voice sounded like it had an echo.

 

“Would you come out of there?” Derek asked, sighing. “Is this where you go when you’re not pushing me around?” he wondered as the thought dawned on him.

 

“Maybe.” Stiles looked around his little hidey hole. “I can’t figure out why. When I…let go? I wake up right here. In this stupid closet.” He ran his fingers across the shelf above him. “This is where I was when I first found you,” he added thoughtfully.

 

Derek frowned into the closet. Usually if a ghost was drawn somewhere specific, it was because something of theirs was close by. “I just meant to ask if you knew why you were a ghost, not why you were _here_.”

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles muttered, and Derek leapt away from him, because he was suddenly behind him.

 

“Don’t _do_ that!” He blew out a breath and retracted his claws. “Do you remember how you…died?”

 

Stiles shook his head, but as he did so, blood dripped from his face, oozing from a cut on his forehead, from his nose and mouth, soaking into the back of his t-shirt from a wound on the back of his head. His arm was at an odd angle, and there was a red stain spreading rapidly from his stomach area.

 

“What-?” Stiles began, sounding scared again, as he looked at his body.

 

“Calm down,” Derek instructed, trying to keep the quiver from his voice.

 

This kid had died violently. Derek couldn’t tell if he’d been murdered or had some sort of mishap.

 

“It’s your death body,” he explained. “Because you were trying to remember how you died. When did you first try to put my dishes away?”

 

Stiles focused on him and snorted. “I helped with more than that. I helped you unpack when you moved in.”

 

So he’d been here since May.

 

“You helped me _unpack?_ ”

 

Stiles shrugged. “You weren’t really unpacking, you were just kind of staring at everything.”

 

“My sister had just died,” Derek bit out, crossing his arms.

 

Stiles looked down. “I’m sorry.”

 

 _Everyone I know is dead,_ Derek thought with a semi-hysterical laugh.

 

**January**

 

Derek felt more like he had a roommate than a haunting. A very bossy, picky roommate who made Derek buy _food_ instead of pre made dinners. He was teaching Derek to cook, or at least he said he was. He told Derek that he should take better care of himself, so he could live a long, happy life.

 

When Derek had said that he wasn’t too bothered by that, Stiles had quietly faded and left him alone for a couple days until he’d apologized and Stiles had come back. He didn’t talk about it, refused to think about it.

 

Sometimes, at night especially, Stiles would forget his own name and flicker in and out of sight like lighting in a haunted house.

 

One memorable time, he’d been tired and blurry all day, and then he’d disappeared with a sort of _pop_. He’d come back sputtering, one hand clutching his chest, one pressed up against the microwave. It looked like he was being electrocuted. The microwave let out an ominous cracking noise.

 

 

“I’m really sorry,” Stiles said, hovering somewhere near Derek’s shoulder while he tried to see if the microwave would still work.

 

When Derek turned around, Stiles’ legs were crossed and he was seated mid-air.

 

“You’re acting more like a ghost today. It’s weird.”

 

“I didn’t mean to break your microwave.” He moved his hands over his legs restlessly, patting his knees and picking at the ankle of his jeans.

 

“You are sitting mid-air, Stiles.”

 

Stiles looked down, frowning. “There’s not a chair here?”

 

Derek’s eyes widened. His first thought was that something was wrong with his ghost. He immediately banished the thought, irritated. He’d tried not to apply possessive pronouns when thinking about Stiles. His mother would chastise him, say that was disrespectful.

 

“No, there’s not a chair,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to buy a new microwave. I will starve if I don’t have a microwave.”

 

Stiles shook his head. “I tried to teach you how to cook…” He looked behind Derek. “When did you put a window in the kitchen?”

 

“There’s not a window in the kitchen.” He decided to ignore the weird. “I still need a microwave.” Derek put his shoes on, then his jacket. He hesitated. “Can you leave the house?”

 

Stiles was standing by the door. Derek was getting used to him doing that, now.

 

“I don’t know. I think I could if I…held on to you?” He waved his hand in front of his face. “That’s not what I meant. Hold. Like, not with my hands but with my energy?”

 

“If you attached to me,” Derek said with understanding. Ghosts had to attach to something to stay there; Stiles was attached to the apartment, or, more specifically, the towel closet.

 

“Yes,” Stiles said with feeling, nodding. “That’s what I meant.” He straightened up suddenly. “What if we see someone I know? What if there’s a hint? I could find out why I’m still here.”

 

Derek nodded. He had some theories about that, but he didn’t want to get Stiles’ hopes up. “Well, come on. I have to go buy a new microwave.”

 

“You know, you could order stuff online and never have to leave your house. But you’d have to buy a computer first, and get wifi, but after _that_ , you’d never have to leave the house for anything you wanted.” Stiles twisted his mouth. “You know what, never mind. That’s probably a bad thing. You’d go crazy. Crazier. Why can you see me, by the way?”

 

“Everyone can see you, Stiles,” Derek said, latching on to that. He didn’t want to be crazy. “Your energy is really strong, which is why you can touch things and show yourself. It’s about who you choose to show yourself to.”

 

He was going to have to ask Deaton to come to his apartment to meet Stiles. Or he could take Stiles to Deaton’s.

 

“Oh.” Stiles pressed his hand to the door. “I can’t walk through walls. I thought ghosts could walk through walls.”

 

“You can’t?” Derek frowned. The poltergeist had certainly gone through the wall, almost escaping until his mother had trapped it in some sort of salt-and-iron circle thing. “Maybe you’re just a little more solid than most right now.”

 

“That sounds like I have to be decomposing in order to walk through walls,” Stiles snapped, but before he could completely fade, Derek reached for his arm.

 

They were both stunned when Derek’s fingers made contact for a split second.

 

So far, Stiles was the only one who could initiate a touch.

 

Derek jerked his hand back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off. I meant you had more energy than regular ghosts right now.”

 

“Do you know why?” Stiles mumbled, running his fingers over the door. “Why I have more energy?”

 

“Maybe you were a witch.”

 

Stiles frowned, lips kind of doing some sort of puckering thing that was not flattering. They smoothed out quickly and he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Can we go out? I want to look for people I know.”

 

Derek drove to the closest everything-and-some store. On the way, Stiles let himself fade, but put his hand on Derek’s arm to let him know that he was still in the car.

 

“Do you get tired when you do something harder than normal?”

 

When Stiles let out a sharp laugh.

 

“You know what I mean. Anything _more difficult_ than what you’ve been doing at the apartment.”

 

Stiles flickered into view suddenly. “You mean, what I’ve been doing at _your_ apartment.”

 

Derek felt a blush immediately blaze over his face, and irritated himself. “Well, you’re—there. So.”

 

“We aren’t roommates,” Stiles snapped. “It’s not like I _live_ with you.” He let out a bitter laugh.

 

He was in his death body again, blood dripping down his face and smearing his mouth. His seatbelt was cutting into his throat, blood making his hair stiff. He was slumped in the seat, barely breathing.

 

“Stiles?” Derek remembered he hadn’t put his seatbelt on. “I think you got into a car accident,” he said calmly. “I was just trying to be considerate when I said _the_ apartment.”

 

Stiles pressed his hands up against his face until he looked normal again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t think I used to get mad this easily. I don’t know why it keeps happening.”

 

“It’s just…it’s normal.”

 

“How do you know this stuff?” Stiles asked, twisting his hands in his lap. “About ghosts, I mean.”

 

“My mom had a friend who asked for her help from time to time with hauntings, and my uncle liked to research about other kinds of…people. Since we were werewolves.”

 

“Were,” Stiles echoed, sounding sad and distant.

 

“Yeah. They’re…dead. They died.” He squeezed his hands around the steering wheel. “It’s been a while, I guess I should be…better. But then my sister died, and it all just came back.” He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Why didn’t you show yourself earlier? I mean, you didn’t start doing the dishes until August, but you helped me unpack in May.”

 

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. I know that I saw all your crap still packed up, so I helped you unpack. And then…I noticed you were just letting the dishes sit there, you never put them away, so I did.”

 

Derek nodded, turning into the store parking lot. “I’m just going to go buy a microwave real fast.”

 

“I’m coming with you!” Stiles said from outside of Derek’s door.

 

“Why? Do you think you had a friend who worked here or something?” Derek asked, gesturing at Home Supplies.

 

Stiles looked. “I don’t think so. I don’t really recognize it.”

 

 

Stiles didn’t recognize anyone while they were in the store. He did tell Derek that he was going to stay invisible to everyone else, but a couple babies waved at him, or tracked him with their eyes. Derek was disturbed.

 

“What? I thought little kids could see ghosts.”

 

“Uh, no. They can’t. Usually.” Derek was getting even surer that Stiles wasn’t quite as dead as he appeared.

 

 

After he bought the microwave, he put it in his car and connected his headphones to his phone, which he’d nearly forgotten he had. It was lying in the middle console of his phone, dead. He figured if he held it in his hand and pretended he was talking, he could talk to Stiles while they walked.

 

“Good idea,” Stiles said, looking at the phone. “You have a smartphone and you don’t even use it. I bet you pay the bill, too. I’ve never seen you use the phone,” he added thoughtfully. “Not even to order food.”

 

“Did you just…watch me?” Derek asked, shifting his feet uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Stiles watching him.

 

“I always left before you got totally naked, I’m not a _perv._ ”

 

Derek flushed and started walking. “We’re going to walk around town a little.”

 

“Where are we?” Stiles asked, looking around.

 

“Uh, Beacon Hills, California.”

 

Stiles flickered. “I lived here. That’s good. I didn’t think I would wander far, but who knows?”

 

If he lived here, he likely died here. _If_ he died. He still wasn’t entirely sure about that.

 

“Where are we going now?” he asked as they walked.

 

“Just walking. Um, looking for any clues. You know.” He shrugged and tried to pretend the woman that passed him on the sidewalk hadn’t turned around to stare at him. He was wearing _headphones_ , holding a _phone_ , it wasn’t that weird.

 

“Clues,” Stiles said with a headshake. “It’s because you said ‘clues’.”

 

“I see.” He rolled his eyes and was about to say something when Stiles let out a sputtering gasp and lurched into the street.

 

A car nearly hit him, not that he would have felt it (Derek didn’t _think_ he’d have felt it), but he walked on unscathed.

 

“What are you looking for?” he demanded loudly, trying to make it seem like he was arguing with whoever he was on the phone with.

 

There were only three contacts in his phone. One was dead, one was take out, and the other was Deaton’s clinic. He wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be talking to, anyway.

 

“Derek!” Stiles yelled from the other side of the street.

 

His head snapped up, just in time for Stiles to appear in front of him, fingers curling in his t-shirt. “I found something,” he said breathlessly.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Derek blinked and focused on the kid on the motorcycle over Stiles’ shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Just…” he waved vaguely at his phone.

 

The kid frowned at him, looking around. “I thought I heard someone yell…” He bit his lip. “Nothing. Hey, are you from around here?”

 

“I live slightly out of town…”

 

His brown eyes widened enormously. “That’s kind of great! Can you do something for me?”

 

“Derek, come on,” Stiles hissed. “I have to show you something!”

 

“Hold _on_ a second,” he snapped, and once again, weakly gestured at his phone, grimacing. “Um, what did you…?” Derek was out of practice, but he thought it was weird and probably not custom to ask strangers for favors.

 

The kid’s eyes hardened slightly, steeling himself probably. “Can you put some of these flyers up around your neighborhood? We want as many people to see them as possible, and if you’re from a ways out of town, it could help. Please? He’s been missing for months.” He was holding a stack of white flyers. 

 

Derek snatched them, and Stiles moved to the other side of the street impatiently after giving the back of Derek’s neck a hearty pinch.

 

“You want me to pass these out?”

 

“He’s been gone since…since May. We haven’t heard from him.” The boy’s jaw trembled, and Derek focused on him again. “His dad is the sheriff, so if you see him…just go straight to the police station.”

 

“I…will. His dad’s the sheriff, you said?”

 

“Yeah, Sheriff Stilinski.”

 

 _Stiles Stilinski,_ Derek thought, almost amused. “Okay. I can do that.”

 

“I’m Scott McCall. Thank you so much.” Scott put his arms around Derek immediately, like it wasn’t strange to hug some random person on the street.

 

Derek flinched. “Uh, you’re welcome.” Once Scott McCall had left, Derek looked at the stack of flyers. His heart sank when he saw the picture of his ghost, laughing and smiling with his head tilted back just so. His eyes were a bright, lively amber, and his skin _was_ that pale.

 

 **Stiles Stilinski is 20 years old, born April 27th, 1994. He has been missing since May 18th, 2014. Last seen driving powder blue 1980 Jeep CJ-5, wearing plain white t-shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. Any information, please call the Sheriff’s department.**

 

There were phone numbers listed beneath the words.

 

Derek closed his eyes and took a breath.

 

“Derek! Come _on_!” Stiles called, waving from across the street. “What are you doing? What is that?” He took a flyer from Derek’s hand.

 

“Stiles,” he said softly, trying to make it look like he was holding the paper.

 

Stiles stared at it. “They don’t even have my _body?_ I’m just…lost?”

 

“That could be why you’re here,” he tried to say gently. It came out sort of gruff. “Because you haven’t been, uh, put to rest anywhere.”

 

“Where did you get this?” Stiles demanded sharply. “I was trying to show you this stupid…thing over there, and you…where did this come from?”

 

“That boy I was talking to, that you interrupted. When I told you to be quiet? He asked me to put them up by my place.”

 

“Why didn’t you call me back?” Stiles demanded, the paper crumbling in his fist. “I could have known him! I might have recognized him!”

 

“Because I can’t just call you over when the kid just handed me a flyer saying that you’re missing.” Derek heard his voice going flat and distant, felt his face closing off.

 

He hadn’t realized he’d started to consider Stiles a sort of friend until the moment when it felt like he was being attacked by someone he cared about. _He’s dead, Derek. Don’t get attached._

 

Some cynical part of Derek pointed out that at least if he was already dead, he couldn’t die, like everyone else.

 

“Thanks a lot. Now what?” he demanded, thrusting the paper back at Derek and making him stumble with the sheer force of it.

 

“Now I’m getting tired of you losing your temper and causing me pain,” he snapped, taking the flyer and smoothing it back onto the pile carefully. “Come on,” he ordered. He was taking Stiles to Deaton. Maybe Deaton would take care of it and Derek could get back to being the lazy degenerate he’d been trying to be before Stiles had decided to make him a project.

 

“Wait,” Stiles said breathlessly. “Wait, please don’t be mad. Don’t just leave me.”

 

Derek jerked his head. “I said come on, didn’t I?”

 

“Don’t leave me here,” he whispered.

 

Derek turned, a chill running down his spine.

 

Stiles was in his death body again, eyelids fluttering. He wasn’t talking to Derek anymore.

 

“Please, please someone help me,” he wheezed.

 

Derek closed his eyes and leaned up against the post beside him. Someone had been with Stiles? And had probably left him. “Come on!” he snarled, lips twisting around his fangs.

 

Stiles gasped and flickered back to his regular self. He wrapped his arms around himself, like he was trying to warm himself up. “Where are we going?” he asked in a mumble.

 

“We’re going to talk to someone who can probably help.”

 

 

Dr. Deaton was still not very impressed with Derek. Also not impressed with the flyers. “I’ve seen them,” he said. “It’s terrible that Mr. Stilinski is missing, however, he’s a twenty-year-old young man, and is perfectly capable of leaving on his own to explore.”

 

“He’s the ghost that’s been doing my dishes,” Derek said flatly.

 

Dr. Deaton’s eyes went soft around the corners for a split second, like he was sad to hear that; Derek was shocked.

 

“That’s too bad. He’s a good friend to my assistant, Scott. Do you know where his body is?”

 

“No. He doesn’t remember anything. I think he was in a car accident, though. From his death body and the…flashback thing he does.”

 

“Is he still at your apartment?” Deaton asked dryly.

 

“No, he’s here. Well, not in here. He’s outside.”

 

“He attached to you so he could leave the apartment. I wonder why he attached to your home in the first place. Bring him in.”

 

Derek leaned out the door to call for Stiles, only to find him standing directly in front of him, their noses nearly touching. After seeing a picture of the living him, Stiles’ ghost seemed pale and washed out in comparison.

 

“Come on, Deaton wants to see you.”

 

“Great,” Stiles muttered, but followed him inside.

 

“Ah.” Deaton shook his head. “That is not a ghost.”

 

“I’m not?” Stiles asked, flickering for a moment.

 

Derek realized he was letting himself be seen by Deaton.

 

“Good to see you, Mr. Stilinski. Alive, more or less.”

 

“If I’m not a ghost, what am I? And do I _know_ you?”

 

“In passing,” Deaton said with a wry little smile. “Your best friend works here.”

 

Stiles’ eyes went hollowed again. “I don’t remember.”

 

“Show me your…it’s not your death body, because you aren’t dead. Mr. Hale, what you have on your hands is a wandering spirit, the spirit of someone very powerful who isn’t quite dead but isn’t healthy and living, either.”

 

“Why does he flicker over to that bloodied image all the time then?”

 

“It’s not _all the time,_ ” Stiles protested immediately.

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“It's a residual of whatever happened to him. He’s trying to remember what happened. He probably had head trauma.”

 

Stiles took a breath and closed his eyes.

 

Immediately, blood started spreading over his shirt near his gut, slipping down from his nose and head, arm snapping near the center of his forearm in a direction it never should have gone.

 

“Yes, the memory problems he’s having is probably due to this.” Deaton gestured at the back of Stiles’ head. “You’ll want to check a hospital outside of town, probably heading toward Richmond.”

 

“Right, if I was at this hospital, Melissa would’ve known,” Stiles murmured with his eyes still closed. They flashed open in a second, startled. “Who’s Melissa?” he asked, swiveling his head around.

 

“Your closest friend’s mother. She’s an RN,” Deaton said calmly.

 

“Derek,” Stiles said earnestly. “Can we go look at the Richmond hospital? To check?”

 

 

Derek drove to three hospitals, showing them the flyer each time, on each floor, until he found the right one. They were relieved someone had finally come; one of their doctors had insisted she’d met the boy before, but didn’t know where.

 

When Derek met the doctor, he was surprised to find that she was a werewolf.

 

“I was hoping someone would come for him soon,” she said as she led Derek at a fast clip toward the room. “They wanted to take him off life support, but without his spirit, he’d just die without the support. When he got here, he was fine, but then my friend, Mariana, she mentioned that he was a wanderer—someone who astral projects when they’re sleeping sometimes, I guess—and that his spirit had wandered off while he was here. I asked her why, and she said he probably didn’t like hospitals? I don’t know.” Dr. Adams, her nametag said, was still catching her breath from the onslaught when they got to the room. “Is…have you seen his…?”

 

“Yeah, yes. He’s here. He’s just…he’s scared,” Derek said softly. “How’s his body doing?”

 

“Well, his arm is healed, and the injury to his head healed. That’s why the humans,” she said very quietly, “haven’t been able to figure out why he hasn’t woken up. There’s no brain damage or anything lasting but some scars.”

 

“And what happened?”

 

“It was a hit and run out on one of the back roads. A local saw his car all smashed up and heard him crying, I guess. He was still sort of conscious, just until the ambulance got there.”

 

“Here,” Derek said abruptly. “Um, the number for the police station?” He held out the flyers. “I think it’s probably better if you contact them?”

 

“Oh, well. Sure. We could. But don’t you want to call, tell them you found him?” she asked, frowning.

 

“I don’t know how to explain me finding him,” he muttered.

 

“Derek,” Stiles said. “Just say you visit the patients here and that you had seen someone earlier with the flyers and you came to check if it was me. Don’t…don’t leave me alone here,” he said softly.

 

 

Derek made the call to the sheriff’s department. “Hello,” he said awkwardly. “I, uh, I’m at the Cook County Hospital, um, in Edgewood. I think I have information on the kid that’s missing—Stiles Stilinski?”

 

There was a barely audible gasp on the other end. “I’ll put you on with the Sheriff. What’s your name?”

 

“Derek…Hale,” he mumbled.

 

Now there was a pause. “Oh. Alright.”

 

“You know where my son is?” was the first thing Sheriff Stilinski said to Derek.

 

“Yes,” he said, and told him the story that Stiles was feeding him about coming to visit coma patients that never had visitors.

 

Dr. Adams would back him up.

 

Derek went to sit in the room with Stiles. It was strange to see his body, lashes resting heavily on his cheeks, seeming so permanent. He was paler than in the picture, his skin lacking the lively flush. He had a scar across his forehead, just above his left eyebrow, and he was connected to at least three different kinds of machines.

 

“What do I do now?”

 

Derek looked up.

 

Stiles was staring at his own body.

 

“We had to bring him back a couple of times there in the beginning, and once today, actually. He has probably been away from his body for too long. His body reacted by…well, dying.”

 

“You had to…”

 

“Defibrillator,” Stiles said. “That’s why when I came back it felt like I was being electrocuted. When I shorted out your microwave.” He swallowed. “They were restarting my heart, because it stopped.”

 

Derek shuddered. “His heart stopped?” he asked Dr. Adams, who nodded.

 

“Is he here now?” she asked, turning her head, lifting her nose.

 

“You’ve never tried to smell for me before,” Stiles said with a tiny smile.

 

“Laura and I—I mean, my sister and I trained ourselves out of searching by scent while we were in New York. Too many, too much. I didn’t even notice I couldn’t smell you.”

 

Dr. Adams gave him a weird look. “I’ll go wait for the Sheriff downstairs,” she said softly, turning to leave the room.

 

“Can you smell me now?” Stiles asked curiously, leaning over his own body to peer at Derek.

 

Derek shrugged. “I guess?” He inhaled through his nose and coughed. “There’s a lot of cleaning supplies and chemicals,” he explained when Stiles started to look insulted. There was a warm honeyed sort of scent beneath the smell of sweat, cleaning chemicals, and machines. “You smell nice,” he offered, and Stiles grinned.

 

He looked livelier now, closer to his body. Derek could see the amber eyes, bright and just shy of sparkling.

 

“Do you remember anything now?” Derek blurted, and hated to see Stiles’ face fall.

 

“No, not really. Just bits and pieces. I do remember crashing. It was…bad. I don’t remember where I was going.”

 

“Do you remember your dad? That Scott guy said he was the Sheriff.”

 

“I don’t…I don’t know.” He shook his head, rubbed his hands together. “So, how do I do this? Do I just…sit down? And recline? I haven’t been able to walk through anything, so…?”

 

“You’ve probably done this before, since Dr. Adams’ friend said you were…uh, a wanderer? Probably you should just relax.”

 

“I can’t! How can I relax? I need to get back in there, wake up.”

 

Derek nodded. “We can just talk until you’re distracted and relaxed.” He’d never met someone who could astral project, but he vaguely remembered Peter mentioning something about proximity being a factor in something important. He wished he could remember all of it, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to try. “Why did you decide to start helping me?” he asked.

 

Stiles furrowed his brow. “I already told you, you seemed like you could use it. The help.”

 

“You probably like taking care of people.”

 

“I didn’t take _care_ of you,” Stiles insisted immediately. “I showed you how to take care of yourself.” He huffed and crossed his arms.

 

They spoke softly for a while, and Derek didn’t point out to Stiles that he was sort of fading. He was very irritated to find his own heart sinking when he started thinking about the fact that after this, he had no reason to ever get in contact with Stiles, not really.

 

He probably wouldn’t even remember Derek when he woke up, anyway. That was probably how it worked.

 

When Stiles had completely faded, Derek heard him muttering to himself on the bed in his sleep. He went to the hallway and waited beside the door. He straightened up immediately when he saw the sheriff jogging down the hall ahead of Dr. Adams.

 

“That’s him, Sheriff,” she said gently.

 

“Is he in there?” Sheriff Stilinski asked sharply, and Derek nodded, stepping away from the door.

 

The sheriff paused briefly to press his hand down against Derek’s shoulder, a silent thanks, before he went in.

 

“I’m going to…I’m gonna go.” Derek cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks for…the cover. Yeah.” He nodded blindly and stepped around the doctor, hustling to the elevator.

 

 

**February**

 

Derek forced himself not to seek Stiles out. He kept his house clean, he put things away the way Stiles had taught him to. He sometimes cooked, but more often than not he ate the frozen dinners just because they were easier, and there was less chance at failure. He still didn’t get much more contact with people, but he figured he probably didn’t need it. Probably.

 

He was unloading the damnable dishwasher when someone knocked on his door. _Knocked_ was probably a kind way of putting it. He imagined the knocker was using the side of their fist to bang on the wood, possibly kicking at it in between pounds.

 

“What!” he demanded, swinging the door open.

 

He was shoved back forcefully by an armful of male, soft and warm and alive.

 

“You are a _very_ hard man to find, I had to look at my dad’s work computer to find your address,” Stiles said against the side of Derek’s neck.

 

Derek took a second to just breathe, unaccustomed to being touched, and pleased at the scent of Stiles, untarnished by hospital scents. Just laundry detergent and fresh sweat and nerves and energy and honey. “You were here for nine months,” Derek grumbled. “You should’ve been able to find it.”

 

“Speaking of finding things,” Stiles said, and released Derek from the hug, stepping away and marching down the hall.

 

“The hall closet again?” Derek rolled his eyes.

 

“Did you happen to buy things from a yard sale any time in the past decade?” Stiles asked, bent over and rifling through towels.

 

“I don’t know, my sister might have. The towels were all picked by her.”

 

Stiles yanked a pale blue towel out of the closet, with lace at the edges and a bleach stain in one corner. “Aha!” He waved it like a flag above his head. “We used to own this towel, it got put in a pile of towels for the yard sale we had years and years ago, and it got bought, and I cried because it was my favorite towel.”

 

“It’s old and stained,” Derek pointed out.

 

“My love doesn’t lessen if something isn’t perfect,” Stiles said loftily, bringing the towel to his face. “Not that I could remember that it was my towel until I woke up in the hospital to find out that you _ditched_ me.”

 

“I thought you wouldn’t remember.”

 

“Haha, make fun of the kid with the head injury, very mature. My dad almost smacked me! The first words out of my mouth were “Where’s Derek?’ He was understandably pissed, I guess, hadn’t seen me in months and I’m asking after some random guy he’d never met.”

 

“I thought you wouldn’t remember,” Derek repeated firmly, crossing his arms.

 

Stiles’ joyful face dropped slowly, hands clutching around the towel. “But I did. Is—did you not want me to come here? I just wanted to say thank you.” His cheeks started flushing a bit. “Um, sorry for barging in like I owned the place—guess I got a little used to being here.” He ran his fingers through his hair awkwardly.

 

“No! No.” Derek uncrossed his arms, tried to remember what little he knew about social interactions. “Do you want to stay?”

 

Stiles’ eyes widened and Derek realized what he’d said.

 

“For dinner! To cook. For something to eat, I mean. I can’t cook. I have frozen pizza.” Derek closed his eyes.

 

“Did you ever charge your phone?” Stiles asked, and Derek peeked at him.

 

“I couldn’t find the charger.”

 

Stiles sighed and went to the kitchen, pulling out a drawer beside the dishwasher and pulling out a black cord, gesturing at Derek to bring the phone to him.

 

He showed Derek the right way to make noodles for spaghetti, and they ate together at the table that Derek honestly had forgotten was residing in the shadowed corner of his kitchen.

 

He listened to Stiles talk about himself, because Stiles already knew way too much about Derek. At the end of the meal, when Derek was doing the dishes out of habit and Stiles was sitting on the counter next to him, swinging his legs, it didn’t even register that he’d been smiling at Stiles for over an hour.

 

“Do you want to go out?” Derek asked abruptly, setting the last plate in the dishwasher.

 

Stiles smiled craftily. “What, to dinner? We just ate.”

 

“I mean, with me.”

 

“I wasn’t going to go _without_ you.”

 

“You’re a shit. I meant go on a date with me. Some time.”

 

“A-plus wooing technique there. No wonder you live up here alone.”

 

“ _Stiles._ ”

 

Stiles just grinned at him. “Yeah, alright.”


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Super short epilogue that I couldn't resist adding.

**Epilogue// 3 years later//June**

Stiles’ favorite story to tell was about how he and Derek met, because it always made everyone laugh and made Derek put his face in his hands. 

He liked to tell them about how he haunted Derek for months until he finally asked him out on a date. 

Scott was very bothered that he didn’t know about Derek until after they started dating, because he could have sworn they met before. 

He told the story at their wedding and Derek literally dropped his head on the table when he heard Stiles telling it, and even the sheriff laughed. 

Derek responded with a story of Stiles’ obsession with the towel closet, and with laughter ringing through the reception, Stiles decided they were going to be a great married couple.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is presumably a ghost, but he isn't actually dead; just astral projecting from his hospital bed. Also the gore would be from Stiles' car accident, in which he got hurt pretty badly, but had nine months in a coma in the hospital to heal from.


End file.
